


You Say Codependent Like It's A Bad Thing

by ms_soma



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Codependency, John Goes To Therapy, M/M, Post Reichenbach, a little bit of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-06
Updated: 2013-01-06
Packaged: 2017-11-23 20:38:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/626294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ms_soma/pseuds/ms_soma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John’s back to seeing his psychologist. Why? It could be something to do with being hit by a car and the return of his supposedly dead best friend (yes, the two events are related). It could also be because John doesn’t quite know what he should be feeling having Sherlock back in his life, all he knows is that he’s loathe to let him out of his sight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Say Codependent Like It's A Bad Thing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fallingvoices](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallingvoices/gifts).



> Written for the talented falling_voices for the [Holmestice December 2012 Challenge](http://holmestice.livejournal.com/202020.html), who loves "them best when their relationship is fucked-up and greedy and possessive and angry, when they've both got huge issues of their own that they're not ready to handle, when they're difficult and needy and completely and utterly mad for each other."

1

“You’re upset with him.” John’s therapist crossed her legs and perched her notepad on top, pen in hand, waiting for his response.

“I wouldn’t say upset.”

“How would you describe it? You are allowed to have negative feelings around this situation, you know.”

John looked outside to the figure sitting on the terrace, mobile in one hand and cigarette in the other.

“I don’t want to have negative feelings. They should only be positive.”

“You thought your best friend was dead for the better part of three years, and his return resulted in your being seriously injured.”

He glanced down at the plaster encasing his wrist. “It’s just a broken arm and a few fractured ribs, I’ve had worse.”

“You were targeted because someone found out that Sherlock was still alive. Resentment is natural.”

John took a deep breath and tried to sort through his feelings. He wasn’t upset with Sherlock, and resentment wasn’t the correct term. When he thought about the pain Sherlock had caused him, the emotional pain he’d suffered for years, there was a twist in his gut that hurt more than any broken bone ever had. A red smouldering fire settled deep within his belly.

“I’m angry.”

“Good, let’s work with that.”

“I shouldn’t be. I wanted him back, I’ve got him back.”

“At what cost?”

“At no cost. I would have sustained much worse to have him back in my life.” He rubbed his good hand down his face. He had no idea why he persisted with this psychologist. She never quite understood where he was coming from. “But I’m so bloody angry at him. Look at him. Sitting there happily smoking like a chimney.”

“You don’t like him smoking?”

“I’m a doctor, of course I don’t!”

“Is that why you’re angry? Because he’s smoking?”

“I’m angry because he has absolutely no regard for the people around him.” Sure, Sherlock had explained that he had to do things that way. That the lives of Mrs Hudson and Lestrade were at stake. That as long as Moriarty had a cell of disciples, none of them were safe. But John could have come with him. John could have stood by his side. He wouldn’t have had three years of hope and grief and boredom and loneliness.

The psychologist sat quietly, waiting for John to fill the silence, a technique John was aware of and sadly fell for more times than not. His gaze shifted back to the outdoor terrace, checking that Sherlock was still there, that he hadn’t vanished. Sherlock had a gleam in his eye that could only mean one thing, and this was confirmed as he watched his friend rise from the chair and open the door to the room.

“John, we must leave. Lestrade has a case for us.”

“We’re not yet finished the session,” the psychologist told him.

Sherlock sighed in the put upon way only he could manage. “John’s angry at me due to some displaced abandonment issues from his childhood, likely from when his father walked out on them when he was 12. You think it’s due to me putting him in danger, which is rubbish, I’ve put him in danger many times and he’s always thrived on it. If anything it’s a dependency issue, something you’re only just becoming aware of and would like to explore further because my presence has you concerned that it may actually be a co-dependency. But for now, there’s been a fatal accident at a circus involving a Russian diplomat’s daughter and we need to get to the scene before Forensics botch it up.”

Her eyes narrowed. “So go alone. He can meet you there when we’re done.”

Sherlock’s stricken gaze met John’s, both silently conveying that they would not leave without the other. Wordlessly, John picked up his jacket and slung it over his plastered arm.

“Anderson really does have a knack for moving evidence before we get there,” John said in a way of apology. “I’ll reschedule for next week.”

“John—“

He held his hand up. He was not letting Sherlock leave without him. “Sorry, we need to go.”

In the cab to the crime scene, John kept close to the door on his side of the back seat, not speaking a word. He didn’t like to speak much after therapy anyway, but his anger and frustration still sat like a smoking ball in the pit of his stomach. If Sherlock noticed, he didn’t do anything about it, but when they arrived at the crime scene he waited for John before heading to the site of the accident and made sure he was in sight at all times.

 

2

John didn’t think death would be so painful.

Everywhere ached, from his head to his chest to his fingers. He woke up for long enough to see the clichéd bright light and hear Sherlock’s voice bossing people around, a voice he hadn’t heard anywhere but in his head for three years. John smiled despite the pain. Even in heaven Sherlock was a colossal pain in the arse. It was almost comforting.

The next time he opened his eyes he was faced with the man himself, sitting next to him and staring. He looked terrible. Dark hair shaggier than usual, large bags under his eyes, at least a week’s worth of growth along his jaw.

Oh. It could only mean one thing.

“Am I in hell?” John asked, voice raspy.

“John!” Sherlock exclaimed, reaching for his hand and squeezing it. “Are you okay? Of course you’re not, you’re in hospital. I should have been there sooner. I should have saved you from this.”

John let Sherlock mumble while he mentally did an inventory of his body. Did he still have his body? Shouldn’t he be a soul? Then again, Sherlock still had his body.

“Did you hurt this much when you died?”

“Died? No, John, you’re very much alive,” Sherlock said, running his other hand over John’s forehead. “Go back to sleep, we can talk when you wake up.”

John was alive? He blinked to clear his vision, and when he opened his eyes again Sherlock was still before him. He wanted to stay conscious, wanted to spend time in his best friend’s presence, even if it was an illusion brought on by whatever trauma he’d experienced. But it was a losing battle.

“Stay,” John pleaded as his eyes blinked closed.

Sherlock brought John’s hand up to his lips, and John could feel his breath, signs of life, against his fingers. “I’m not going anywhere.”

 

3

John couldn’t stop staring at him.

Between him regaining full consciousness and leaving hospital, Sherlock had managed to get a haircut and a shave, looking almost like his old self. His tan was fading, soon to leave him with skin like the porcelain John remembered it being. He had some new scars, one above his eyebrow, another on the back of his left hand, but they appeared to be the only indicators that he had spent the past few years dismantling a dangerous cartel.

“If you had’ve been doing your job properly he wouldn’t be hurt now!”

John looked up from his armchair to see Sherlock glaring at his brother.

“As sorry as I am about John’s present state of health, it’s hardly my fault that the last of Moriarty’s men discovered that you were not as deceased as they assumed.”

“You were supposed to keep an eye on things until I returned.”

“Well you have returned, John is alive, your name has been cleared, and the outfit who ran John over have been caught. Time to focus on the positive aspects.” Mycroft stood from his seat. “It’s good to see you back at Baker Street.”

Sherlock scowled at his retreating form and burrowed deeper into the couch.

John kept staring at him.

A few minutes later, Sherlock must have sensed his gaze.

“Am I supposed to be making you tea or something?” he asked.

“I’m fine.” John said.

“I should be doing something comforting though, right?”

John rolled his eyes. “Good observation.”

Sherlock sighed. “I’m not good at this, John. I’ve never been good at this. I’ve spent the last three years only having myself to fend for.”

“And whose fault is that?”

“Oh, I see.” Sherlock turned to look up at the ceiling. “You’re upset that you’re injured because of my enemies.”

John snorted. “For once in your life you are completely and utterly wrong.”

Not wanting to hear any more of Sherlock’s deductions in that moment, John rose from his chair and walked toward his bedroom; the bedroom that had been his since Sherlock went rogue on his own.

“What are you doing?”

He flung the bedroom door open and called out his response. “I’m tired of being under house arrest. I’m getting changed and then I’m going for a walk.”

“But your injuries—“

“Sod the injuries. My knee is feeling better and my broken arm is hardly going to keep me from using my legs.”

By the time he walked back out to the lounge, Sherlock was sitting up, concern written all over his face.

“I really don’t think you should be—“

“Well I am,” John said, defiant. “Are you coming or not?”

Sherlock didn’t hesitate to jump up from the couch, grabbing his keys and putting them in his coat pocket. John didn’t necessarily feel like speaking to him, but he’d rather keep him in sight.

 

4

It didn’t matter how many sheep John counted, sleep was elusive. He tossed and turned as much as he was able with his arm in plaster and tape around his ribs, but he couldn’t get comfortable.

Nothing made sense anymore. When he moved into Sherlock’s room it was a source of comfort, a way he could stay close to him. Now, after events of the past week, being hit by a car and reunited with a dead man, it didn’t feel like enough.

He turned to the sound of the bedroom door opening, his eyes squinting from the strip of light emitted from the other side.

“John, I know you’re upset with me right now, but—“

That was as far as John allowed Sherlock to get before using his good hand to lift the duvet. Sherlock shrugged off his dressing gown and slid under the covers, close enough for John to feel his body heat.

“This is better,” Sherlock whispered in the darkness. John waited for him to elaborate, but he never did. John thought he understood it anyway.

A wave of calmness better than any painkiller crashed over John. His fingers slid across the sheets until they found Sherlock’s thigh and rested there, the warmth of his skin reassuring that he was there, that he was alive.

His eyelids grew heavy and sleep finally overtook.

The next night, Sherlock didn’t say anything as he crawled in beside him. And the night after that, John woke in the middle of the night to find himself securely tucked into Sherlock’s side. He slept better than ever.

 

5

“It’s good to have you two on the case again.”

John was standing with Lestrade not too far from a cliff edge that Sherlock and Anderson just abseiled over to look at the body at the bottom of it. John cursed his stupid cracked ribs and broken arm, not for the first time, and concentrated on his breathing techniques while they waited for word to come over on the radio.

“It’s nice to be doing something normal again.”

“As normal as you get sharing a life with Sherlock Holmes.”

“When he’s wanting to share it, yes.”

Lestrade didn’t pry any further. He’d seen John during the worst of his grieving and could probably guess his current state of mind better than any psychologist John paid ridiculous amounts of money to.

“Lestrade,” Anderson’s voice came over the radio. “Confirmation on victim. Female, late 20’s, blonde. Could be Hannah Bowen.”

“John, are you there?” Sherlock sounded far away and tinny through the speakers. John didn’t like that he couldn’t see him.

“He’s here, I’m looking after him.” Lestrade confirmed.

“Good. Oh for god’s sake Anderson, just hand over the bloody radio!”

Greg grinned across at John who could only shake his head.

“Definitely not a suicide. She has bruises and cuts that are not at all fresh, and a chunk of skin and hair under her nails that could only come from trying to get a grip on her attacker.”

It felt like an age that they were down there, the sky turning from grey to a darker shade of grey until eventually a helicopter lifted them back up to solid land.

“John, are you feeling okay?” Sherlock asked.

“Better,” he replied, not adding the now you’re back up here. Sherlock nodded as if he understood and felt the same.

Greg strode over to them. “We’re airlifting the body back to London for the autopsy. I’m assuming you’ll want to stay here the night?”

Sherlock nodded. “I’ll need to do some investigations and take some samples from this soil tomorrow morning.”

“We’ve booked you a room at a hotel in town.” Lestrade turned to face John. “We can fit you in the chopper if you’re wanting to get back to London tonight?”

John threw a worried look at Sherlock who was already shaking his head. “No, it is essential that I have John’s assistance tomorrow.”

Greg shrugged and John let out a breath he wasn’t even aware he was holding.

“Come to the car with me Sherlock, I can hand over some of the notes we have on this. Then I’ll get Sally to drop you both at the hotel.”

Sally’s car was nearby, so John walked over and leant his weight against it, taking the pressure off some of his joints which were, admittedly, still sore from the accident. He looked across at Greg and Sherlock, heads bent together looking at file notes under torchlight.

“He hasn’t changed, you know.”

John turned his gaze to Sally who had suddenly appeared next to him.

“Just because he’s been gone for so long doesn’t mean he’s any different. He’s still the same psychopath.”

John grit his teeth, feeling his jaw clench at the words and tone Sally was using. He’d never had much time for her, but had even less so now, after everything that had happened three years earlier. He kept his tone even.

“The last time you stuck your nose where it wasn’t needed, I thought my best friend was dead for years. So you’ll forgive me if I no longer listen to a single word that comes out of your mouth.”

Sally’s eyebrows receded into her hairline as if she wasn’t expecting that reaction. “Just looking out for you.”

“No you aren’t. You’re trying to discredit Sherlock. Again. Some people learn from their mistakes.” Sally had still yet to say she was wrong about Sherlock when the business with Moriarty went down, even with the copious amounts of evidence to the contrary.

“Well don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“And don’t say I didn’t warn you.” John would be damned if he let that woman ruin everything again.

It felt like midnight by the time they made it to the hotel. Not even bothering to get a second room, Sherlock followed John into a comfortably furnished studio, large king bed in the middle.

“I’ll run you a bath,” Sherlock said as he threw their bags on the bed.

Clean, warm and relaxed from the soak in the tub, John climbed between the soft sheets and rested his fatigued body. It was mostly on the mend, the plaster was due to come off in the next week, but it still took a lot out of him to be active all day like he was.

He was just dozing off to sleep when he felt the bed dip and Sherlock spoon up behind him, his hand resting on John’s hip. John instinctively wriggled back further into him, taking comfort from his body heat.

“John,” Sherlock whispered into his neck.

“Mmm?”

“Will you talk to me about it one day?”

He may have been on the edge of sleep, but he knew what Sherlock meant. It wasn’t often that Sherlock wanted to indulge in things he had already deduced, so it meant a lot to him that he was even willing to try and get things cleared up between them.

“Soon. Need sleep.”

He felt Sherlock’s lips gently graze the back of his neck in response as his muscles got heavier and sunk into the mattress.

 

6

If there was a noise more annoying than an alarm clock early in the morning, John was yet to hear it. He reached his arm out – finally free of its plaster – and hit snooze, burrowing into Sherlock’s side and falling asleep again.

The second time the alarm went off, John suddenly realised why it was set in the first place.

“Shit!” he muttered, throwing Sherlock’s arm and the covers off of his body and hopping out of bed to the bathroom.

Christ, but John had to get back into the land of the living. It had been a month since his accident, a month of nothing more than getting reacquainted with his best friend and taking on police cases like the last three years hadn’t happened. But it was back to being an adult, back to the real world.

The creak of the bathroom door hinges interrupted his thoughts. The curtain was pulled back and a stripped down Sherlock joined him in the shower. John moved closer to the tiles to allow Sherlock some of the spray.

“Why did you get out of bed so quickly?” Sherlock grumbled. He had pillow marks on his cheek and looked decidedly unhappy about being awake.

“It’s my first day back at work, I can’t be late.”

“Already? But you’re injured.”

“My cast is off, my ribs have healed, and the doctors have cleared me for a partial return to work.”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “What time do you need to be there?”

“In an hour. So I need to hurry.”

Truth be told, John was feeling apprehensive about the day. It was as if the previous month had been a dream, and now he was living real life again with a real job and real responsibilities. Alone.

So it was with great relief when he saw Sherlock in his boots and coat, waiting at the front door to escort him to the clinic, and he appreciated the constant text messaging between patients. And when Sherlock joined him the next day too, the routine fell seamlessly into his now normal life.

 

7

“Have you spoken with him about it? How the last three years have been for you?”

John looked at his fingernails rather than make eye contact with his therapist.

“The timing hasn’t been right.”

“Are you still angry?”

“I don’t know what I am. I’m still pleased as anything to have him back.”

“You still follow each other everywhere?”

John’s therapist was poised on the edge of her seat, but was looking out the window to the terrace where Sherlock was reading the newspaper.

For once it was John who let the silence carry.

“I see he’s not smoking.”

“He owes me that much.”

“He owes you? Why?”

“You know why.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“Because he abandoned me for three years, putting his life in danger every single day, let me think he was dead. I have him back and I refuse to lose him again, especially to something like lung cancer.”

“Is that why he is always with you? Because you refuse to lose him again?”

John paused. “He isn’t always with me.”

“When was the last time he wasn’t?”

“When I was at work yesterday.”

“And how did you get there? Did you travel alone?”

John thought his silence probably spoke volumes.

“What about at night? How are you sleeping?”

“Fine.”

“Where are you sleeping?”

“In my bed.”

“Where is Sherlock sleeping?”

Again, a question John didn’t want to answer. He could see the therapist writing notes in her ledger.

“Do you find this normal, John?”

“I’ve never been one to accept normal.”

She didn’t seem to like that answer, and tried a different tack. “What exactly is your relationship with Sherlock?”

That was an easy one. “He’s my best friend.”

“Is that all?”

John shrugged. “It’s all there’s ever been.”

She paused, considering her words. “Why is that not enough right now?”

John looked out towards his best friend. He hadn’t thought of it like that before, but he thought he knew the answer.

“I don’t know.”

 

8

John wandered out of the bathroom with minty fresh teeth.

“Goodnight, Sherlock,” he said, then he took in the scene and his brow furrowed. “What are you doing?”

Sherlock looked up from tying his shoes. “I want a cup of tea.”

John groaned. He’d used the last bag and the last of the milk when he got home.

“It’s eleven at night?”

“Yes. I know it’s customary to wear pyjamas at this time of day, but seriously, John, you might want to change.”

“I don’t want to go out.”

“But we need tea and milk.”

“And I’m buggered from working all day. Come on, Sherlock. We’ll go tomorrow.”

“I won’t be able to come to bed for another three hours while these cultures set and I need tea. Come, it will only take ten minutes.”

“So go without me!” The second the words were out of his mouth, John wanted to take them back. Sherlock’s eyes went wide.

“You really want that?”

John shook his head and dropped into a chair, defeated. They’d gone long enough without talking about it all, long enough living in each others pockets.

“What are we doing, Sherlock?”

Sherlock must have sensed John’s willingness to finally talk it out because John didn’t have to clarify. “I’m sure your psychologist would have some choice words around it. But I have noticed a, co-dependency, since I returned.”

“Co-dependency, is that what this is? Is it all it is? Sherlock, I can’t let you out of my bloody sight without feeling the beginnings of a panic attack!”

“Which is why it’s a co-dependency. It’s mutual! Do you have any idea how distressing it was seeing you in hospital like that?”

“Any idea? Are you bloody kidding me? I thought you were dead, Sherlock. For years!”

“And you nearly very much were! As soon as I got word they were aware I was alive I rushed back to London. For years all I could think about was keeping you safe and I nearly lost you at the eleventh hour!”

“So it’s all about you, is it? Worried someone will target me again?”

“I know Mycroft has them. I know it’s irrational, but I nearly lost you doing the very thing I was trying to protect you with! Who says it can’t happen? That you won’t be kidnapped or gunned down or run over again?”

“And who’s saying you won’t run off again, leave me alone again? For fuck’s sake, I was distraught without you. Do you understand?” John’s voice was rising, but he couldn’t help it. “We can’t keep living like this! We have to be able to function day to day knowing we’ll be okay.”

“How do you propose that? Because until you can guarantee me your safety I will struggle to not want to be there to protect you!”

It seemed stupid to John that they were essentially arguing over the fact that they were overprotective of each other, but it felt good to let go of some of the emotion, no matter how draining. He ran a tired hand down his face and tried to make sense of it all.

“What do you want from me, Sherlock?

Sherlock’s grey eyes swept up and down his body, but he was silent. John let the silence run for a few beats before he gave up.

“Right,” John said, rising from the chair and walking toward the bedroom.

“Where are you going?”

“Bed. I don’t want to argue with you, Sherlock.”

“But what about the tea?”

“Go and steal some of Mrs Hudson’s. It won’t be the first time.”

“John—“

He held a hand up to fend him off. “I’m tired of this. I’m tired of thinking you’re going to disappear the second I close my eyes. Just. Just, when you know what you want from me, let me know.”

John held his breath as he heard the door to their apartment open, but he couldn’t hear the snick of the deadlock, so he knew Sherlock wouldn’t have gone far. He’d be back. He wouldn’t run off again and leave John alone, thinking that his best friend – whatever Sherlock was – was dead again.

And that was the thing, really. John didn’t know what he was to Sherlock anymore. He was past upset with him, past angry, but he didn’t know what he wanted from Sherlock just as much as Sherlock didn’t seem to know what he wanted from him.

Co-dependency. That was the word Sherlock used. The word his therapist used. Her question floated around in his head, preventing sleep. Why wasn’t Sherlock’s friendship enough right now?

After a fair bit of tossing and turning the bedroom door cracked open and Sherlock slipped inside.

“Are you awake?” he whispered, and crawled in beside him when John answered in the affirmative.

Sherlock wrapped his arm around John and buried his face in his neck.

“I don’t want you to be angry with me anymore,” he told John.

“I’m not.”

“You have been.”

“I’m not anymore.” He sighed, and turned in Sherlock’s arms so they were face to face. “Honestly, I don’t know what I am.”

Sherlock blinked a few times, as if he was contemplating his next words. “You’re everything.”

John’s brows furrowed. “What?”

“You asked what I wanted from you, and I’ve been thinking about it.” Sherlock paused. “I just want you. To never be separated from you. To be everything you need so you never leave. Do you understand, John? I need you to be what I couldn’t be for three years.”

“Sherlock—“

“I feel like that’s the solution to our predicament. If we were each others everything, then maybe we’d be comfortable enough not being together every minute of every day.”

John lifted a hand and swept the curls from Sherlock’s forehead. God, this man was infuriating and amazing and absolutely right, as per usual. “Jesus. When have you been anything but?”

John hadn’t seen Sherlock smile much since he returned, but this one lit up his whole face.

“John, I must tell you, I feel the urge to kiss you right now.”

He was thinking the same thing. “Then what are you waiting for?”

Over the years, John had learned that Sherlock possessed many qualities that disqualified him as being a sociopath, and now he was discovering another. From the first tentative touch of Sherlock’s lips against his own, John could sense a certain energy, a passion thrumming through them that wasn’t all coming from John.

Sherlock’s lips brushed John’s once, twice. Experimenting, seeing what felt good. John allowed him to play a bit longer before taking control, grabbing the back of Sherlock’s neck and pressing their lips together more forcefully, opening his mouth to sneak the tip of his tongue against the seam of Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock let out a groan from the back of his throat that made John impossibly harder, and delved his tongue inside John’s mouth, testing, teasing, rubbing their tongues together until John had to pull back to breathe.

“Everything,” Sherlock murmured between kisses. “I want everything.”

“Yes. God, yes,” John replied, pressing a leg between Sherlock’s thighs.

“Yes, this. This is what we should be doing.” Sherlock kissed him again, pulling at the hem of his t-shirt for John to lift off. After a few failed attempts at undressing each other, they soon realised it was easier if they both just took care of their own clothes and met back in the middle of the bed.

If their first kiss was electric, then the first time feeling Sherlock’s bare skin on his own was supersonic. He swore he could see the sparks fly wherever their skin touched. Sherlock’s mouth attached itself to the pulse point in John’s neck, purring as John scratched his nails down his back and grabbed at his bum. John allowed himself to luxuriate in the feeling of Sherlock against him, Sherlock all around him, and the waves of tension from the past few months - from the past few years - rolled off him.

As Sherlock took his time preparing John before sliding into him, John couldn’t help but think that maybe this was where they were meant to be, where they were headed all along. If Sherlock hadn’t faked his own death, if John wasn’t caught up in grief, if John had never been hit by that car, would they be there now? Would they be in John’s bed in Sherlock’s room fucking and possessing each other like they needed it more than air?

“How did I not know it would feel like this?” Sherlock’s question was more of a statement, and John bit out a groan as his dick touched a particularly good place inside of him. “I knew I was growing attached, I knew laying next to you wasn’t enough, but this. Oh God, John.”

John wrapped his legs around Sherlock and pulled in him closer, tighter, so that he felt complete, finally complete.

“That’s it, right there. God, Sherlock, it’s like you’ve been fucking me for years. We have to do this again, do it forever. You’re never allowed to leave me again.”

“Yes, yes, never leaving. Staying. I’ve got you John, I’ve got you.” Sherlock took John’s dick in his hand and started pumping.

“You close?”

John could hear the break in Sherlock’s voice. “Too close.”

“Do it. Come on. Come in me. Want to feel you everywhere.”

“Do you have any idea the effect your words have on me?”

“I’m beginning to.” John let out a shout of his own as Sherlock hit his prostate and twisted his hand at the head of his dick at the same time. “I wish you weren’t wearing a condom. Want to feel it all, want to feel your spunk inside me, getting me all wet.”

“God!” Sherlock shouted, and that seemed to be his undoing, pumping his hips harder, faster, until a look of bliss crossed his face and his hips stopped rocking.

John took the opportunity to take his own dick in hand. It only took two pulls before he was coming all over his own stomach, feeling spent and sated and like everything was finally as it should be.

“Your psychologist is going to hate this,” Sherlock said later, after they’d showered and changed the sheets.

“I think she’d rather like it. It will keep her in work, after all.” At Sherlock’s confused look he continued. “Do you really think that our relationship could be anything but dysfunctional?”

“Of course. With sex like that it will also be insanely hot. I shall have to take to wearing looser trousers, lest Anderson assume any excitement is directed at him.”

John’s laughter tempered to a serious question.

“Do you think we’ll survive it.”

“An emotional relationship? I can’t guarantee I’ll be very good at it, but we’ve survived this far.”

John knew Sherlock was not just talking about the past hour, or the past month since he’d returned from the dead. John could admit, to himself if not anyone else, that his relationship with Sherlock had never been typical, and this was likely something that had been building since their first meeting in the basement of St Bart’s.

“That we have.”


End file.
